


be mine

by leaveanote



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Domestic smut, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Valentine’s Day, Love, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Sex, Smut, Switching, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Valentine's Day smut, ineffable valentines, it is VERY cheesy but i wanted ineffable valentines softness and sex!, they're switches bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22706632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: It's their first Valentine's Day together, and Crowley is trying to pick out the right present.*The problem is, Crowley would give Aziraphale the entire world. His heart on a platter, his life on the line. He’d hang the stars for him, he’d walk right back into Heaven and give them what for.Except, well. He’s already done that.“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Crowley grumbles. He seizes three of the chocolate-hugging bears and slams his credit card on the counter.“You’re not right,” he frowns at the plump, fluffy, cream-colored teddy bear as he stomps back to his Mayfair flat, the others in a bag tucked under his arm.It grins up at him, mockingly.Crowley cringes back at it, cheeks scarlet. He flings open the door to his flat, ready to add the bears to the not-good-enough room and collapse into his throne for a couple hours before picking the least-awful thing and heading to Soho, but.There’s already someone sitting on his throne.And he’s bedecked it in roses.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 543
Collections: Hot Omens





	be mine

Everything’s taken on a rose-red glow, and Crowley’s not entirely sure how to navigate it. 

He feels like he’s  _ floating  _ half the bloody time, but also like he’s never been quite so grounded in his body before. Just the gentlest brush of skin, one that would count as no contact at all when in the crowded pits of Hell, feels like the brightest blessing when it comes from Aziraphale.

And it’s not just touch. Everything they’ve done before is cast in this new light: sitting across from him while he eats, wandering through the city to try out a new restaurant or nick a rare book from a “less deserving” owner, sprawling out in the back room with several bottles of wine—it’s nothing they haven’t done hundreds of times before, in some iteration.

But now, Aziraphale slips his hand into Crowley’s while they’re walking.

Now, Aziraphale reaches over as he reads, runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair, gentle as you please. 

Now, when they’re done with their outing, Aziraphale doesn’t so much as invite him over as he does tug Crowley inside. Some nights, for reading or drinking or watching something or just talking and dozing off, and other nights, quite a bit less talking, and not a wink of sleep til daybreak.

Both of them are very, very old. The earth still has potential to  _ surprise _ Crowley, certainly, but there’s no way around the fact that it really hadn’t done much of that in quite a while. 

But now, now! Everything has taken on a new charge, a new energy, new meaning. When Aziraphale turned to him there in the park, just after they’d saved the world, he had looked to Crowley with a question in his eyes and Crowley answered it with a swooping, awkward, desperate, perfect kiss, and now he doesn’t ever want to stop answering. Everything is new, absolutely everything, infused with bright new meaning. 

Including February 14.

“Fuck,” Crowley mutters under his breath. His hands are shoved into his pockets as he glares through his glasses at the row of teddy bears clutching heart-shaped, plastic-wrapped chocolate boxes. That’s not right, either.

Since New Year, every time Aziraphale’s gotten lost in his books for a day or two, Crowley’s slipped away as much as he could without raising suspicion. He’s been slinking through all the finest chocolatiers in London, the loveliest vineyards in the Loire Valley, the most extravagant florists of the Netherlands, even every ethically sourced diamond boutique on the continent. 

And nothing. Nothing! It’s the night of the thirteenth, and Crowley’s entered a sort of fugue-state of panic, embarrassment, and affection.

Nothing is right. Nothing is  _ good _ enough, nothing says what Crowley’s trying to say. 

The thing is, Crowley’s given him quite a lot of gifts, before they officially became a couple. What can he give the angel that commemorates this new step? 

It’s not that Crowley didn’t walk out of those shops empty-handed, mind. He had to add another room to his flat to keep all the teddy bears, wine-soaked chocolates, balloons, and jewelry he couldn’t help but bring home. Not to mention all the other various trinkets, books, and artworks he’s collected throughout time he’s been waiting for the opportune moment to give to the angel. 

And, well, Crowley has accumulated about seventeen diamond rings in the past few millennia, so he can have his pick when he finally gets his bloody courage up.  _ No  _ need to rush that bit, though, don’t want to scare him off.

The problem is, Crowley would give Aziraphale the entire world. His heart on a platter, his life on the line. He’d hang the stars for him, he’d walk right back into Heaven and give them what for.

Except, well. He’s already done that.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Crowley grumbles. He seizes three of the chocolate-hugging bears and slams his credit card on the counter. 

“You’re not  _ right,”  _ he frowns at the plump, fluffy, cream-colored teddy bear as he stomps back to his Mayfair flat, the others in a bag tucked under his arm. 

It grins up at him, mockingly. 

Crowley cringes back at it, cheeks scarlet. He flings open the door to his flat, ready to add the bears to the  _ not-good-enough _ room and collapse into his throne for a couple hours before picking the least-awful thing and heading to Soho, but.

There’s already someone sitting on his throne.

And he’s  _ bedecked  _ it in roses.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Aziraphale exclaims, twinkling. He wiggles in excitement, and Crowley tries in vain to stealthily stuff the bear with its brethren in the bag and hide the whole lot behind his back.

“It’s not til tomorrow!” Crowley protests weakly. He doesn’t even think of wishing the bag into the gift-room, he’s too busy taking in the sight before him. “Gosh,” he observes weakly. His heart, pitiful thing, is fluttering like a butterfly in his chest. “You’ve, er. Gone ahead and done the thing quite right, haven’t you?”

The scene should look campy, kitschy, not least because it is a  _ very  _ gaudy throne (Crowley knows this and loves it), but also because Aziraphale has always been shit at keeping plants alive. (What a pain it’d been at the Dowlings’ for Crowley to undo the damage “Brother Francis” had wrought with his absolute dearth of knowledge about begonias.) It should look like the inside of a cheesy, sappy shop. 

But instead, it looks, well. Like paradise. The real kind, the myths of heaven brought to life and not the sterile, unforgiving reality. 

Thick, thornless vines curl around the throne, bursting into soft, luscious blooms. Deep red roses, pale pink ones, and some that are an embarrassingly familiar copper, and Crowley tucks a rose-red curl behind his ear as he takes in the scene, terribly aware that he’s blushing. 

“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” Aziraphale says, his voice still warm, but edged with a hint of hesitancy.

Oh, it’s not just the roses, it’s like the entirety of the flat is bathed in a golden glow, even in the chill of the February night. Crowley blinks and realizes there’s bottles of wine on his desk that he didn’t pick out himself (though there’s a few of the same ones in the gift room), and a stack of chocolates tall enough to teeter.

The glow, Crowley suspects, is probably not from a miraculously altered light source. 

It’s just Aziraphale.

It always is.

He remakes, redecorates, all the pieces of Crowley’s life, shifts them into something theirs, now. 

Crowley takes a deep breath, trying to steady the clatter of his heartbeat.

“Is—er.” Aziraphale looks around him, fussing with the petals of a nearby blossom. “Is it all right? It’s not too much, is it, I know it’s awfully cheesy, but I thought—”

“Angel,” Crowley croaks, shaking his head. He clears his throat, drags his fingers through his hair. “Oh, it is not too much.” 

“It’s quite all right if you haven’t gotten me anything! I—I know it’s just a silly, human appropriation of Saint Valentine’s memory, I just, well. I thought it’d be—nice.”

Crowley lets his eyes come to meet Aziraphale’s. He gives a helpless sort of grin, and Aziraphale tentatively gives him one back. 

“It’s. I.” Crowley groans, but his cheeks are still pink, and now that the shock’s worn off he’s starting to feel something close to giddy. 

“What?” Aziraphale says, tilting forward in the throne towards him. He looks.  _ Way  _ too good sitting in it. Especially when it’s decked out like a Rococo candygram, perfectly framing his soft, cream-coloured shape, but he’d look good in it anyway. Makes Crowley want to crawl between the angel’s thighs and sink to his knees. Which he usually wants, anyway. 

“It is not,” he says, stepping closer, “that I didn’t get you anything.” Crowley waves his hand (is his blasted  _ hand _ blushing too?) and the door to the room of gifts opens. 

Aziraphale tilts forward to peer around the throne to look at it, and then does a double take.

“Oh, my goodness.”

“Yeah, I know. I was going to pick just  _ one _ thing out, you know, or seven, save the rest for—for next time—” Despite the fact that Aziraphale has not given him reason to doubt in the past six months, Crowley still feels like this is presumptuous to say  _ aloud,  _ but Aziraphale’s eyes have gone very bright and crinkly, and he takes a lot of encouragement from this. “But I was having trouble picking something out, y’know, because nothing feels like  _ enough.  _ I don’t think there is anything out there that’s enough.”

“I don’t either,” Aziraphale says, standing abruptly, his face all lovely warm with a smile. “None of  _ this  _ is enough,” he says, gesturing to his own offerings, and he shakes his head when Crowley opens his mouth to protest. “It’s not about finding a gift that tells you how I feel about you. I don’t think this planet has anything big or beautiful enough. I don’t think anywhere does.”

Crowley’s mouth stays slightly open. He feels lit up from within, a strange, magic kind of warmth, one that’s no longer unfamiliar, one he’s still getting used to. 

“It’s just a gesture, darling. And,” he wiggles, sending a fresh rush of love through Crowley, “and an excuse for me to eat chocolate!”

“You don’t need an excuse,” Crowley says softly. “I’ll get you chocolate every damn day.” 

Aziraphale strides from the throne and places his hands on Crowley’s waist. 

“That’s my point, dear.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Can’t convey how I feel about you in one day, with one gift, or even a roomful.” He slips his hands under Crowley’s jacket, his t-shirt, lets them rest on his bare skin. Crowley lifts his own to the angel’s shoulders. “It’s going to take a lifetime to do that.”

Something inside Crowley, perhaps the very essence of who he is, is soaring. 

“Oh, angel.” He pulls him close, rubs his thumb over Aziraphale’s plush cheek. “Good thing we’ve got quite a long span of that, ‘cause I don’t think I’m  _ ever  _ going to be done showing you exactly how much I love you.” 

“Good thing, indeed,” Aziraphale smiles, and sweeps him into a kiss. 

And oh, even though they’ve had so many now, Crowley hasn’t stopped savoring each and every one, memorising them, devouring them like a starving man. 

This is a particularly good one too, Aziraphale’s hands so sure on his body, his mouth damp and strong and still smiling. Crowley deepens the kiss, pressing their bodies together, letting his tongue nudge between the angel’s lips, and Aziraphale gives a rich, low sound that makes Crowley’s entire being seem to sing. 

“Take me to bed?” Aziraphale whispers. His breath is hot on Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley gives a soft growl. Desire courses through him, familiar as anything—he’s been aching for Aziraphale for entire ages, the rise and fall of empires, the shift of continents, the evolution of many, many languages. Only now, now, he gets to act on it. He gets to show him. And that love, that thing that was ruinous once, the part of him that had felt like poison and drowning, that he always had to keep leashed, caged inside him best he could for fear of bringing Aziraphale to fall with him—now he knows it’s not an evil thing at all. Now he knows, none of him is. Not in the ways that count.

“Whatever you want, angel,” he says, and he means it. 

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows invitingly, and Crowley grins. He bends and, mentally telling his muscles  _ not  _ to shake, reaches around Aziraphale to pick him up bridal-style. Aziraphale lets out a pleased little gasp and wraps his arms around Crowley’s shoulders as Crowley carries him to the bedroom, feeling slightly stupid but also a bit like a rather rakish, dashing hero, thank you very much, and with Aziraphale beaming up at him, he’s quite pleased with the impulse.

The bed is the one Crowley’s had for several decades: a ridiculous four poster with crimson velvet curtains. It, on its own, is nowhere near as inviting as the cushy, pillowy tartan extravaganza Aziraphale’s conjured up for them in the apartment above the bookshop, but Crowley’s gotten it to be a bit softer and wider since Aziraphale’s been coming over, and tonight it feels quite sufficient indeed.

Aziraphale’s already tugging Crowley’s tie off as Crowley lays him carefully on the bed.

“Get over here, handsome,” Aziraphale beckons, a cheeky smile on his face.

“You’re the handsome one,” Crowley says throatily, bending over him. He gets Aziraphale’s coat off, his vest too. He can smell the familiar scent of Aziraphale’s love and arousal in the air, and it makes him  _ giddy  _ to know it’s for him, it’s all for him, makes it a little easier for him to say the devastatingly mushy truths buried in his heart. “Please, you’re the most beautiful creature in history, my soft angel.” Yes, it’s easier to say when he can bury his face in the inviting curve where Aziraphale’s throat meets his shoulder, when it just feels impossible  _ not _ to say it, and once he’s started, he can’t stop. And when there’s no funny look at the other end, no feeling of going overboard, just Aziraphale clutching him closer, saying it back. 

Aziraphale’s hands are at Crowley’s belt, and Crowley’s pulling his shirt over his head. He’s tugging off the angel’s trousers and there’s a flurry of socks and underthings and then they press together, skin on skin, and it feels  _ right,  _ no shame or hesitation, just the sheer relief of it. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs, his voice taut with desire as he runs his hands down the generous expanse of the angel’s body, “I’ve loved you since before there was a word for it.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open. He lets Crowley lay him onto his back on the mattress, moves his hips so Crowley can straddle his waist and rub against him, gets his hands over as much of Crowley as he can. 

“It was unnamed,” Crowley says into the softness beneath Aziraphale’s chin, nuzzling, nibbling there, “but it was encompassing. It make me  _ curious,  _ and it didn’t leave, it—oh, angel.” Aziraphale threads his fingers through Crowley’s hair, runs his other hand over the curve of his spine, the rhythm of his ribs. “It wasn’t like how I loved...Her.” 

Aziraphale swallows. Crowley  _ knows  _ he probably shouldn’t bring Her up while they’re in bed, rubbing their cocks together, but he can’t help it, and it’s too late for it now.

“Tell me.” Aziraphale pulls him down to lick his throat, to run his palms over his chest, to whisper in his ear. “Tell me, darling. I want to know.”

“It wasn’t like how I loved God. It—it felt  _ mine.  _ It wasn’t an obligation, like it was for Her. It wasn’t what I was made to do. There was always something of Earth in it,” he says, and Aziraphale rolls their bodies together. “Something we weren’t made for. Something not  _ human,  _ but in the way that we met, somewhere in the middle of holy and profane, the way—you saw me, and didn’t fear me, the way I saw you had questions, and I didn’t have the answers but I asked them too—what I’m saying is, I had never felt  _ anything  _ like it before,” he says earnestly. “And then, there was you! And I—I wanted to do  _ right _ by you, and I wanted to get to know you, and I wanted to make you happy, and I’ve just never, ever stopped, it’s only gotten so much more, it still does, every day—it’s  _ new,  _ I’m  _ different  _ because of this love, and it feels  _ right.”  _

“It does,” Aziraphale echoes in a sort of breathless, ecstatic whisper, clutching for him, his hands frantic to touch as much as he can. “For me too, Crowley, it does.” He cups Crowley’s cheeks in his palms and looks deep into his eyes. “I’m not who I was made to be, any longer. I get to be who I want to be, now. And that’s because you showed me it was possible.”

“I get to be who I want to be, now. Because you made me want to be.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, embracing him, “Crowley, Crowley, I love you!”

“I love you, angel.”

“And I loved you then, too,” Aziraphale says, between kisses, “not because I’m a being of love, but because you’re the only one who ever saw me, who let  _ me _ come to see me, and that love just—it just  _ grew,  _ and it deepened as I got to know you, and it deepens even more now because I get to know you in this new way, and you’re so  _ wonderful  _ at it—”

“Fuck, I hope so.” 

“You  _ are,”  _ Aziraphale says, and he manages to say it firmly even though he’s gasping, “you make quite the excellent boyfriend, you know.” 

“Don’t want—don’t want it to be too  _ much.” _

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, pausing.  _ “Never. _ Never too much, never not enough.” He traces his thumb over Crowley’s mouth, his cheek, the mark of the serpent on Crowley’s temple, and he says, very clearly: “I love all of you.” 

Crowley feels like he’s soaring again. It feels better than flying, better than heaven, it’s love, it’s  _ love,  _ in its truest form, to be seen and known and trusted and adored, and Crowley takes Aziraphale in his arms and kisses him and it tastes like starlight, like utter devotion, like soft skin and sweat and a gentle, beautifully familiar smile. 

It goes on and on, their bodies rolling together, unhurried and lost in the sensation of each other, until Aziraphale pulls Crowley against him, hard. He brings his mouth to Crowley’s ear.

“Make love to me?” 

_ Fuck. _

Usually, Crowley draws this part out. They’ve been having sex for nearly six months now, a blink in the history of all the millennia Crowley’s wanted him, and so he takes his time. They’re learning each other’s bodies, and so they study. And when it’s like this, oh. Crowley’s attentive, responsive, as he learns how to move his hands, his mouth, where to press hard and where to caress gentle, how to use lubricant or his own spit or both to get them ready, and he does this, nearly every time, until both of them can’t wait any longer. 

But tonight, tonight, Aziraphale wraps his legs around him. Shows no signs of nudging Crowley’s head down, or motioning for anything else.

“Do you want—?” Crowley starts to ask, to be sure, but Aziraphale captures his mouth in a kiss, and places his hands on Crowley’s hips to guide him.

“Just like this,” Aziraphale whispers. “Just like this.”

Crowley presses inside slow, and Aziraphale’s ready for him. He’s warm and slick and inviting, and he arches his back in a beautiful, languid movement as Crowley buries himself to the hilt. 

“How is it?” Crowley asks, nearly breathless, his mouth on Aziraphale’s collarbone.

“You feel  _ so  _ good.”

There’s something in his voice that Crowley recognizes, and when he pushes himself up to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, he sees the angel is an absolute _wreck_ of delight. He’s beaming, eyes crinkled, his breath coming quick. 

“I love it,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley can’t help but know he means it, entirely. “I love you, I love it, please keep going, darling.” 

_ “You  _ feel so good,” Crowley tells him, moaning as he starts to move. “You’re fucking  _ perfect.”  _

And he is, tight and hot, welcoming Crowley in. His thick cock is hard between their stomachs and Crowley rubs against it with every thrust. His thighs are soft, pinkgold stretchmarks dancing along them and the curves of his stomach too, and he flings his arms over his head to push back on the headboard, to take Crowley as deep as he can.

“Harder,” Aziraphale hisses, still grinning, his nostrils flaring, his mouth damp. “Harder, give it to me. I want it. I want you to take me, I love it. I love you, I love all of you, in every shape, and I love your  _ cock,  _ darling, and I want you to give it to me.”

_ “Aziraphale.”  _

“C’mon, baby.” Aziraphale bites his lip. “Oh yes,  _ yes, there _ —Crowley, there,  _ there, fuck—” _

Crowley thrusts harder in a haze of arousal, half-fighting to last, but also caught up in a sheer mess of love, enraptured in watching Aziraphale as he fucks into him. Every bit of him trembles, and Crowley’s doing that. He’s open and wanting, he’s hard and dripping between their bodies, and Crowley’s doing that. He’s  _ laughing,  _ bright with joy, and Crowley’s doing that. He’s unguarded, elated, moaning aloud, and it’s Crowley doing that, it’s Crowley he wants, he  _ loves— _

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, tilting his head up to kiss Crowley’s mouth. “Can I finish inside you?”

“Yes, shit, anything, of course—”

Aziraphale holds him by the shoulders, slowing his pace, to look him in the eye. He’s still smiling, sweaty and blissful, but he’s intent on this bit.

“Do you want that?”

It had taken a bit to get used to—letting Aziraphale take care of him, too. Making sure he wasn’t doing anything he didn’t completely want just because he thought Aziraphale wanted it. But he’s learned Aziraphale wants to tend to him just as much as he wants to tend to Aziraphale.

And he’s also learned he loves literally every way they can be together. Sometimes they’re more in the mood for one sort over the rest, but there are _quite_ a few, and they’re all equally magnificent. 

Crowley kisses him messily, dragging his hands through the angel’s hair and giving a few more choice snaps of his hips that leave Aziraphale gasping.

“Yeah,” he murmurs into Aziraphale’s mouth.  _ “Fuck,  _ yeah, I want you inside me.” 

“All right,” Aziraphale says shakily. “Then please, let me, because otherwise you’re going to make me come in the next minute, dear.” 

Crowley flashes his teeth in a smile, grinding in a little deeper for just a moment before he pulls out. 

“Next time,” he grins. 

_ “Fuck.  _ Yes, darling.” Aziraphale reaches up to caress his cheek. Crowley tilts his head and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. Aziraphale lets his hand slip to touch his index finger to Crowley’s lip and Crowley brushes the tip of his tongue to it. Aziraphale hums, low in his throat, and nudges two fingers just past Crowley’s teeth, so Crowley can suck on them, get them slick. “Oh, my dear.” 

Crowley flashes him a blazing look, then gets on his hands and knees. 

“That’s it,” Aziraphale breathes. Crowley can’t see him anymore, but he can hear Aziraphale stroking his cock, and then he feels those wet fingers at his entrance. “That’s it, baby.” 

It happens like this sometimes, when they’re right in the heat of it, right on the brink. Crowley drops the pet name, and Aziraphale goes overboard with them. Crowley didn’t think he would, but he loves it.  _ Mine,  _ they both say.  _ Mine, mine.  _

Aziraphale pushes his fingers inside and Crowley arches his back, keening as he takes them deep. The breach feels so  _ good,  _ the glorious stretch of it, and then the angel gets his fingers even slicker and starts to move, and Crowley groans aloud.

“That’s it, lean into it, love. Does it feel good?”

“It does, it  _ does.” _

“You’re so wonderful, you’re so  _ good  _ to me, pet.” Crowley shivers at the name, at the sensation.  _ Yours, yours, yours. _

“You’re so handsome, darling, I love when you’re spread out like this for me.” Aziraphale nudges Crowley’s thighs apart, shifts between them. His other hand rubs Crowley all over, his shoulders, his hips, the ridges of his spine, his scalp, and Crowley’s  _ melting. _ Aziraphale’s careful, clever fingers work him so good, and Crowley’s slick cock throbs between his thighs. “Tell me when.” 

“Now, Aziraphale,” Crowley manages. “Now,  _ now.”  _ Crowley whines at the absence when Aziraphale removes his fingers, but then he feels the thick, wet head of the angel’s cock at his entrance and he bites his lip. “Please.”

“There we go,” Aziraphale says softly, sliding inside. Crowley’s mouth parts in a wordless cry as he opens for Aziraphale’s length. “Oh,  _ yes,”  _ hisses the angel, and even though Crowley’s facing the wall, he can hear Aziraphale grinning, and his erection pulses in response. 

“So good,” he chokes out. He has no idea how long his arms can hold him up, the pleasure is  _ encompassing.  _

“You’ve opened up so good for me, love,” Aziraphale murmurs. He leans forward, presses Crowley into the mattress, covers Crowley’s body with his own, and that rubs Crowley’s erection hard against the bed and pushes Aziraphale’s cock so deep at the same time. Crowley cries out, arching back into him. 

“I am,” he gasps, and Aziraphale thrusts into him, maddeningly slow. “I did, I— _ angel!” _

It’s  _ perfect,  _ like this. It always, always is, but when it’s like this, Crowley gets to be surrounded, enveloped in the angel’s love, and it’s hot and breathless and intense, the love irrefutable, transforming him from within.

Aziraphale buries his face in the back of Crowley’s neck. Crowley can feel every inch of Aziraphale moving inside him, the hard, thick girth of him, grinding in so deep and good.

Aziraphale fucks him harder, sucks a bruise into the soft skin of his throat, rakes his blunt nails across his scalp and tugs at Crowley’s hair. His hips make an obscene slap against Crowley’s thighs and his breath is hot on Crowley’s cheek and Crowley can hear high, lovely sounds of effort and want and he can’t tell which one of them they belong to. 

“Do you want—” Aziraphale says at last, his hand coming to Crowley’s hip. “I’m—I’m close, darling—”

“So am I,” Crowley whispers. “Fill me up, Aziraphale, please, I want you to come inside me. I want to feel it, I want— _ oh—” _

Aziraphale puts his palms on Crowley’s wrists, pins him down, and speeds up his pace. He fucks him  _ rough,  _ and Crowley’s eyes roll back in sheer ecstasy, pinned down and taken and loved and loved and  _ loved,  _ and then Aziraphale’s gasping his name and Crowley feels him coming, hot and deep inside him, and that and his own cock rutting against the mattress is all he needs. All his muscles go taut and then pleasure crashes through him, he cries out into the blankets and Aziraphale fucks him even harder, and ecstasy floods through him as he pushes back on Aziraphale’s cock and ruts against the bed and comes and comes against his stomach, Aziraphale kissing him all over as he does. 

“That’s it, darling, you’re beautiful. I’ve got you, I love you. I’ve got you.”

Crowley’s tingling all over, bright with pleasure and love. He comes back to himself slowly, shuddering, but the joy of it doesn’t wane a whit. Aziraphale pulls out of him carefully, and Crowley turns to wrap him in an embrace.

“Hey,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. He can feel come cooling on his stomach, come spilling out of him and dripping down his ass as he moves. Aziraphale beams at him, sweaty and pink-cheeked and gorgeous. 

“I love you, my dear,” he says softly, running a hand through Crowley’s hair. 

“Love you, angel,” Crowley says, nuzzling into him.

They curl into each other, a sticky tangle, warm and safe and together.

“You know, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, rubbing his palm over Crowley’s shoulder, “I really mean it. It’s just gestures, and you really don’t have to get me anything. You’ve already  _ got  _ me, anyway.” 

“That’s not—that’s not why I get you gifts, angel.” Crowley tilts his head to look at him. “I just—I like making you happy. Want you to have everything you could want.” 

“Oh, love,” Aziraphale smiles. “I know.” He presses a kiss into Crowley’s mouth. “And I do.” 

Crowley lets himself get lost in the kiss, in the sweetness of his words, in the presence of Aziraphale, everywhere, until he sighs at last and curls into Aziraphale’s chest.

He’s safe, he’s seen, he’s  _ loved,  _ and he gets to love the angel every damn day.

“Still definitely gonna give you stuff,” he murmurs sleepily into Aziraphale’s chest.

“I know you will.”

“You like it.”

“I do,” Aziraphale chuckles, holding him close.

“Angel?” Crowley asks.

“Yes, love?”

“You...want to go eat the chocolate now, don’t you?”

“No!” Aziraphale says, defensively, and Crowley laughs. “I mean it, I want to lie here with you!”

“You can eat it in bed, angel,” Crowley says, stretching. “I’ll curl up next to you.”

Aziraphale blinks at him.

“I get to eat in your  _ bed?” _

“Mmhm, and I’m gonna watch you until I fall asleep, and when you’re done you’re gonna wake me up and fuck me again—” Crowley grins as Aziraphale bites his lip, the light in his eyes dancing, “—and then we’re  _ both  _ really going to get some sleep, because we’ve got reservations for brunch tomorrow.”

Crowley snaps his fingers, presents Aziraphale with the largest box of chocolates, and kisses him on the cheek.

He’s not going to give Aziraphale all the gifts in his room tomorrow. But Aziraphale knows about them now, and he loves them, and Crowley’s going to get to give them to him whenever he wants. Gonna get to fill as many rooms as he wants. Wherever he goes, when he sees something he wants to give the angel, he doesn’t have to hold back, doesn’t have to worry if it’ll be too demonstrative, too obvious. He gets to give it to him, because he loves him. And Aziraphale knows, and loves him right back.

Aziraphale seizes his face and kisses him all over, chuckling and delighted, before turning his eager gaze to the chocolate box.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, angel.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you liked it <3  
> check out my other fics here and talk to me about ineffable kisses on tumblr @ [letmetemptyou](https://letmetemptyou.tumblr.com/)


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